


Handle with Care

by TerraYoung



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: (it's Eleanor), Chidi totally has anxiety, F/M, Gen, POV Second Person, Panic attack from the non-attackee's pov., Realization of Feelings, Slight Chidi/Eleanor at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 17:38:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13792734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraYoung/pseuds/TerraYoung
Summary: “Janet?”She appears out of nowhere with her customary ding. You jump, definitely not yelping in surprise.“How can I help you, Eleanor?”“I think Chidi’s broken.”Or the one where Eleanor tries to help Chidi through a panic attack.





	Handle with Care

**Author's Note:**

> This is set either early season one or in one of the reboots.

You slam open the door to your horrible little cottage. “I’m back! Ready and raring to –”

Your sentence breaks off as soon as you take in the room. There aren’t any books out, no chalkboard set up, and Chidi isn’t running around trying to get everything ready in time. Instead, he’s sitting on the couch. His legs are pulled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them, and he whimpers every couple of seconds.

“Um, Chidi?” You ask, walking towards him. “You okay there?” No response. “I’m ready to learn how to be a better person, Teach!” Still nothing. You wave a hand in front of his face. “Anybody home?” Nothing. He doesn’t even – okay, now he blinks.

You whirl around, then run a hand through your hair. “Janet?”

She appears out of nowhere with her customary _ding_. You jump, definitely _not_ yelping in surprise.

“How can I help you, Eleanor?”

“I think Chidi’s broken.” You wave to where he’s still curled up on the couch.

Janet tilts her head. “Chidi isn’t broken. He’s going through what’s commonly referred to as a “panic attack”. It’s when someone begins worrying to the point –”

“Yeah, yeah, his inability to decide shirt is coming back to forking bite him in the ash. How do I forking fix him?”

“The most common methods are grounding them through touch, saying comforting platitudes, and reminding them to breathe calmly and deeply.”

You nod. “Okay. Got it.”

“Glad I could help.” Janet disappears with another _ding_.

“Never gonna get used to that.”

You head over to the couch, sit next to Chidi, and wrap an arm around his shoulders. He stops whimpering, so you mark step one as successful.

“I’m _really_ not good at this shirt, so bear with me, okay?” You ask. “So, um, everything’s going to be okay? Don’t worry about how if you fail to help me be good, the neighborhood’s gonna go to shirt. Or that I’ll be royally forked over in the Bad Place. Or –” Chidi starts whimpering again. “Oh, fork me. Fork, fork, fork –

“New plan!” You breathe in slowly, then let it out. “Just follow my lead. Breathe in like… like you’re smelling your favorite food, hold the breath, and then breathe out like you’re blowing dust off of one of your books that weighs as much as a forking shirt-ton of bricks.”

You repeat this several more times until Chidi finally stops whimpering. Until he finally unwraps his arms. Until he finally relaxes his arms and stretches.

“You okay now?” You ask.

Chidi thinks for a couple of moments. “Getting there." He smiles. “Thank you, Eleanor.”

“So all that crazy shirt actually worked?”

“No, they definitely made things worse.”

You deflate. “Oh.”

“But the fact that you _wanted_ to help,” Chidi says, “that you cared enough to _try_?” He pulls you into a hug. “ _That_ worked.” Eventually, Chidi breaks the hug and stands up. “I’m gonna put together a snack. You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

Chidi smiles again, then heads into the kitchen.

Your heart is beating way too fast, and feels like it’s going to explode with happiness. You can tell that your face is beginning to flush. Your body is still too warm where Chidi hugged you, and his words are running on a loop through your head.

“Oh, _fork_ ,” you mutter. “I think _I’m_ broken.”


End file.
